


Les Cheveux

by StrategicDilemma



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Hair, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Torture, One Shot, Violence, if you squint you can see some WidowReaper but it can also be viewed platonically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 18:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrategicDilemma/pseuds/StrategicDilemma
Summary: "Her hair was a problem. Its length well exceeded the curve of her hips and just barely curled into her thigh above her knees. It had been a while since Widow had seen her reflection with her hair free of her usual ponytail, but she had even recognized how long it had grown. Even when it was tamed her standard, tight ponytail, it reached well past the curve of her lower back, and Widow could feel its weight of it bobbing back and forth as she moved.'Quelle nuisance.'"----A one-shot character study. Widowmaker hates her hair and by extension, her reflection.





	Les Cheveux

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for violence, attempted assault, and language.

To say that her hair was long would be an understatement.

Widowmaker stared at her reflection in the mirror, free of her suit and her equipment. Her chest hid beneath the thin fabric of her sleep shirt and her legs stood exposed to the world, covered only by a pair of underwear around her hips. The sun was just beginning to reflect against the waves of the ocean surrounding Chateau Guillard, the glare hitting against Widow’s periphery. The obvious signs of early morning, however, had not deterred Widow from pouring herself a glass of cabernet sauvignon, her stealing a sip of it as she continued to glare at her reflection.

Her hair was a problem. Its length well exceeded the curve of her hips and just barely curled into her thigh above her knees. It had been a while since Widow had seen her reflection with her hair free of her usual ponytail, but she had even recognized how long it had grown. Even when it was tamed her standard, tight ponytail, it reached well past the curve of her lower back, and Widow could feel its weight of it bobbing back and forth as she moved.

“ _Quelle nuisance._ ”

The slight movement of her head as she sipped from her glass caused every strand to bounce, the light of the sun reflecting off their purple color. The stray thought flew through Widow’s head of how hair can’t even _be_ purple. Then again, skin isn’t usually her lovely tint of _bleu_ , either. There were stray pictures throughout the Chateau of a younger woman, the sweet image of a young ballerina, hair brown and skin pale. Widow didn’t know that woman; she had only known her own visage in shades of indigo.

Widow ran her free hand through it. It was messy; traces of bangs were showing with the shorter strands falling immediately back against her forehead. Her fingers caught on tangles, pulling against her scalp. Twenty minutes of just conditioning it the previous night had not stopped her hair from knotting while she slept.

It never occurred to Widow just how much she hated having hair like this. What sort of assassin had to spend their time taking care of their hair? Even as she looked at herself in her reflection, she did not see the master sniper that she knew she was. She saw a girl, a young woman, showered in femininity and, if Widow didn’t know better, too pretty to be taken seriously.

Muttering under her breath, she turned from the mirror and surveyed the rest of the room. She had slept in what she assumed was the master suite, its intricacy hidden behind storage boxes and thick layers of dust. Besides the grand bed, a few tables, a dresser, and the vanity she stood near, there was nothing of use to her in here. The master bathroom was connected, but it was as barren as the rest of the room. Widow sighed; what she was looking for would not be in here. Taking a few steps towards the bed, she grabbed her sniper rifle, Widow’s Kiss, which had slept leaning against the bedpost, and left the room, wine still in hand.

As she walked through the abandoned Chateau, she mused on how she must have looked: her Widow’s Kiss in her right hand, balanced on her shoulder, and a glass of red wine in her left. Her long hair bounced against her thighs as she walked, her smooth, curvy body barely hidden underneath a baggy shirt and a pair of underwear. She knew she was beautiful, the perfect image of a femme fatale. Widow remembered a comment made by Sombra some time ago: “ _Amiga_ , you’re a walking Bond Girl.” More importantly, Widowmaker had remembered her response:

“Bond Girls die.”

Finally coming to a small bathroom near the entrance, Widow placed Widow’s Kiss next to her, leaning it against the counter of the sink. While the master bathroom had been nearly empty, this had been nearly full; every drawer was filled with toiletries and other items, some Widow had thrown carelessly in, but most being abandoned by the Chateau’s previous residents. A hairbrush lay on the counter from one of Widow’s previous times using it. Placing her wine glass next to the sink, she grasped the brush between her blue fingers and began working through the tangles.

In James Bond films, it was true that the most beautiful women were the most dangerous. They won battles with their sex appeal, seducing their enemy before planting a bullet in their skull. In another life, Widow may have found that appealing, but she knew the truth. Those women were fake; they weren’t the cold-blooded killers that they had been said to be, but tools used by the _real_ enemy to trick James Bond. When they outlived their purpose, they died, thrown away like the useless bait they were. Widow had no sympathy for them. They truly were useless, focusing too much on their looks and not on the mission, and Widowmaker would never allow herself to be used and thrown out in such a way by anyone.

There had been an unspoken rule at Talon during her training that Widow was not allowed to even _touch_ her hair. She remembered a Talon general, an older woman with wrinkles and a permanent frown, would come and take care of it for her. She pulled it back into a ponytail, gelling the front so her shorter hairs would stay put against her scalp. The older woman would pull her hair so tight, stretching the skin of her forehead and doing nothing but pulling harder when Widow complained. It was never said why this woman would come and take care of her hair, but Widow surprisingly never questioned it. It wasn’t until after her training had finished and she had thrown that woman’s body, one bullet hole through her head, into the arms of Talon officers that she was able to take care of it on her own.

Placing the brush back on the counter, Widow ran her fingers through it once again. Her fingers moved freely, silky strands of purple flowing across her fingertips. _Parfait_. Not wasting anymore time, Widow began digging through the drawers of the bathroom.

“ _Les ciseaux_ , _les ciseaux_ …?” she muttered, her hands rummaging through the trash left behind in one of the drawers before carelessly slamming it shut. She hadn’t seen a pair of scissors once since she had claimed the Chateau; hopefully someone had foolishly left them in their haste. It took a few drawers and some frustrated curses, but eventually, Widowmaker pulled open one and a pair of scissors lay right on top.

She wanted to sigh in relief, grab them, and begin chopping away at her locks. Widow didn’t necessarily want short hair, but maybe hair that wasn’t so ridiculously long and heavy would work better. Her hair during her training at Talon had been about mid-back length, still able to all be pulled back into a ponytail while not having too much weight. Widow’s short hairs that would eventually jut out hadn’t been an issue then and probably would not have been now; she had gotten used to gelling them back just as that old hag had done with her. If they got too annoying, she would just cut them off and worry about it when they grew back out.

At least, she wanted to do this.

Seeing the pair of scissors, Widowmaker tensed immediately.

 _What are you doing?_ she thought, the voice in her head scolding her. _Stop being a child and grab them, get this annoyance over with_. Widow hesitated still, eyeing the scissors cautiously. She didn’t know what it was, but something was telling her to not touch them. She was being ridiculous, she knew this.

“ _Ne sois pas stupide_...” Widow grumbled, shaking her head. Ignoring her gut feeling, Widow grabbed the scissors and pulled them up to examine them. They seemed old, rust growing on the outer rim. Opening them and running her finger along the blades, they were still sharp, sharp enough to cut hair.

Probably they were even sharp enough to cut skin…

\---------

 _“_ Monsieur _, may I please take care of my hair?”_

_The guard looked down at Amélie, his eyebrow raising. The woman was sitting in her cell, light bruises and the beginnings of scars covering the pale skin of her arms and legs. She looked up at him, a neutral expression but hopeful eyes. Her hands rested on her knees, cuffs connecting her wrists._

_“I already let you shower once. You don’t need to wash your hair again.”_

_“No,_ monsieur _,” she shook her head. “I’d like to brush through it and maybe cut it a bit. It’s getting a bit long for my liking and I’d like to keep it shorter.”_

_“Aw, the princess doesn’t like her hair long? Too fucking bad. You’re not in a hotel, you can’t just request things whenever you want.”_

_Amélie stood up. Obviously, just asking politely wasn’t going to get her anywhere. She had to handle things differently. Walking over to the glass separating her from her guard, she leaned against the wall of her cell, her hips jutting out in an obvious fashion, but still accentuating her curves excellently._

_Ballet definitely had its perks, mainly its effects on the tone and shape of her body. Amélie had flirted with her fair share of disgusting men, most of them being stage managers when she needed a larger dressing room for one of her fellow ballerinas. She never allowed any of them to touch her, but most of them only needed to hear the lovely sound of her French and see how beautiful she was to get what she wanted. Gérard had laughed at her and shook his head when she told him. “You’re like a Bond Girl,” he had said, kissing her forehead, making another comment of how the world’s men weren’t strong enough to say no to a beautiful woman._

_This place and this guard had been no exception. Amélie had managed to receive a shower for the first time she had been captured by batting her eyes and stretching her back and arms out in front of this guard. He was weak and she knew it. Gérard had mentioned how pathetic some of the members of Talon were and her guard was a prime example._

_“_ S'il vous plait, monsieur _,” she asked sweetly, speaking in a low, breathy voice as she ever so slightly swayed her hips. The guard looked at her from head to toe. He was disgusting, but she needed this chance._

_He grumbled and looked around. No other guard was in the area. He rolled his eyes and looked back at his prisoner’s hips. “Needy slut,” he mumbled. “Fine. Don’t fucking move,” he glared at her before walking away._

_He returned shortly, his assault rifle against his hip, and a hairbrush in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. Punching some number into a keypad by her cell, a door easily slid open and the guard stepped in the doorway. Throwing the brush and scissors on the floor, he crossed his arms and growled “Hurry up.”_

_Amélie gazed at the brush and the scissors before gingerly them up. Having her arms cuffed made it difficult, but she managed to hold the scissors in her dominant hand and the brush in the other. Turning her back to the guard in the doorway, she began working through the tangles in her hair._

_Her heart was pounding._

_Her plan had worked but now she was at a loss. She had wanted the scissors to attack her guard, but what was she supposed to do after that? She was a dancer, not a soldier, and this man could overpower her easily. Even if she did manage to attack him and escape her cell, her arms were still cuffed together and she had no idea where she was supposed to go. What would she do? Could she somehow contact Overwatch? There was no doubt in her mind that Gérard and the rest of Overwatch was looking for her, but how would she contact them? This plan was falling apart at the seams and Amélie had no backup._

_The guard watched his prisoner brush through her hair. He had a clear view of her neck and her nape, and his eyes naturally followed down the curve of her back. When his gaze landed on her hips and ass, he smirked. She was sexy, damn sexy at that. Talon had blessed him with watching this one. He knew she was teasing him to get what she wanted, but he couldn’t really complain that a beautiful French woman was flirting with him. He could take advantage of that. Talon was surely having its way with this woman, why couldn’t he?_

_Leaving the doorframe, he walked up behind Amélie, grabbing her by the waist and pulling him flat against him, his crotch grinding against her behind. The action made Amélie drop the hairbrush, the scissors still held tightly in her other hand._

_“You know,” he murmured, pressing his mouth near her eye, “you sure are a big fucking tease for being some married bitch.”_

_A surge of disgust and hatred grew within Amélie._

_“You’re using me to get what you want like a goddamn princess,” he growled. One of his arms wrapped around and started stroking her abdomen. As he continued to speak, it slid down the outside of her thigh: “I think I deserve a little reward for treating you so well, huh? All these mean bastards hurting you, let me make it better.” His straying hand worked to the inside of her thigh._

_Without thinking, Amélie flipped around, jamming the pair of scissors deep into the guard’s neck. He screamed, gasping at the outright_ furious _look in the woman’s eyes. She just dug it deeper into his throat, deep until it didn’t move anymore. It wasn’t clean; blood spurted out onto her hands and her arms, dripping down the guard’s chest. She quickly kneed him in the crotch and pushed him against the wall, him doubling over in pain. Taking one moment to glance at the open door, Amélie ran._

_She had nowhere to go, and her hands were still cuffed, but she ran._

_Amélie did not stop; when a locked door blocked her path, she turned a corner and kept running. She could have been running in a circle for all she knew but she did not stop running. Her long legs carried her as the adrenaline and the sound of her heart beating inside her ears kept her from thinking about what she had done._

_She had been running for about two minutes before the alarm started sounding. “_ Merde!” _she gasped, turning to run away from the sound of footsteps running through the area. She finally reached a long corridor that she recognized; it had been one she had been led down multiple times when she was on her way to being interrogated and beaten by Talon thugs. There_ had _to be an exit somewhere, or at least somewhere to hide._

_Her neck snapped backwards, something gripping her hair from behind her. She screamed; it felt like claws were cutting deep into her skull. The sound of multiple footsteps immediately closed in on her and a fist had collided with her cheek. Whatever had grabbed her while she was sprinting let go just as she was knocked to the floor. A handful of feet surrounded her, kicking her in the face and the gut until she coughed blood._

_She pulled her arms up to protect her face but one of the Talon soldiers stomped down on her cuffed wrists, the butt of his assault rifle slamming into her side. Amélie tried to scream but the wind was knocked out of her. Tears pouring out of her eyes, she barely saw one of the soldiers pull out a cattle prod before she felt it jabbing it right into her spine. Amélie wailed, her own body convulsing on the floor and pain surging through every nerve._

_She was going to die here. She tried to escape and she failed. They would kill her, and no one would ever find her again._

_“Gérard…” she mumbled, her vision clouded by tears and blood. Amélie was blacking out, her body still twitching uncontrollably beneath her._

_“Gérard…”_

\---------

The cracking of glass beneath her hand brought Widowmaker back. Her reflection in the mirror was jagged and cracked, her fist having jammed the scissors deep into its glass. She looked at it for a moment before looking back at her reflection. She didn’t see the assassin Widowmaker, eyes cold and collected and ready to kill. She saw a young scared woman, trying to escape from hell and to get home to her loving husband.

She saw Amélie, and was overcome with a moment of uncontrollable fury.

“ _PUTAIN_!” she shouted. Grabbing her wine glass, she threw it against the mirror, not being satisfied when the glass shattered against it, bits of glass and drops of wine falling around her feet. Grasping the barrel of her Widow’s Kiss, she pulled it into her hands and without hesitating, switched off safety and fired a point-blank shot directly into the mirror, into Amélie.

The explosion of glass was tremendous. The bullet sunk through the backboard of the mirror and into the wall behind it. Glass and splintered wood fell to the floor, bouncing off Widow’s blue skin. The consequences of firing a rifle in a small bathroom rang loudly in her ears, deafening her, but Widow had calmed down as soon as she had fired. She almost felt embarrassed, being overcome with emotion like that, but nothing soothed her quite like the feeling of a fresh kill.

As the ringing faded from her ears, a new sound filled them. It was almost like a whirring sound, like a motor spinning, and it was coming from above the Chateau…

_A ship!_

No sooner had the sound of the ship’s rotors caught her attention did she hear the thud of footsteps stomping on her roof. “ _Merde!”_ she cursed. She ran out of the bathroom, ignoring the numerous pieces of glass sticking into her bare feet, jumping behind a stack of boxes.

Widowmaker was at a disadvantage; she didn’t have her armor, goggles, or her grappling hook to help her. Her hair, still free from restrain and uncut, fell like a shield around her, the ends resting against the floor as she crouched. Whoever was disturbing her should have known, however, that the spider didn’t need anything besides her sniper rifle to end their life.

Widow listened to the footsteps. Based on where the direction the sound was coming from, her intruder was probably aiming to break in through one of the smaller windows near the kitchen. Running from her hiding spot to one with better view, she quickly hid behind another box-stack, back pressed against the wood.

Confirming her thought, the sound of glass smashing came from the direction of the kitchen. Widow quickly checked her clip, making sure it loaded the next bullet into the chamber. Not moving, she listened for the sound of footsteps. They came again, softer than they had been on the roof. They were close to her, but still far enough away that she knew she hadn’t been spotted. Pulling up her scope, Widow jumped from behind her hiding spot, landing on both feetand instantly taking aim between her intruder’s eyes.

Staring back at her was an expressionless skull mask and two shotguns pointed straight at her chest. No one moved for a second before Widowmaker smirked.

“You couldn’t have _knocked_?”

Reaper groaned and threw his shotguns on the ground. “I was taking _precautions_.”

“You were smashing one of my windows,” she corrected, lowering her rifle and flipping safety back on. “It’s good that you decided to ignore the stain-glassed ones or I would charge you.”

Walking past Reaper as though he _didn’t_ just break into her abode, Widowmaker placed Widow’s Kiss on top of a box and walked into the kitchen. She returned after a moment, carrying two wine glasses in one hand and the bottle of cabernet sauvignon that she opened earlier in the other.

“Care for a glass?” she offered, setting the glasses on the same box as the rifle and pouring herself one.

“It’s _morning_ , Widowmaker.”

“Do you have a better idea?” she raised an eyebrow at him, taking a long sip from her glass. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his mask but she knew he was rolling them at her. Widow smirked, turning to walk back towards the master bedroom.

“I assume Talon needs me?” she asked, the sound of Reaper’s boots indicating that he was following her.

“Correct.”

“Wouldn’t have it been easier to simply call me from the ship rather than break windows?”

Reaper growled behind her, “I heard a shot.”

Widow paused, hand placed on the doorframe of the bedroom. Before she could respond, Reaper spoke again.

“Your feet are bleeding.”

Widowmaker looked down. She had left bloody footprints across the floor, blood continuing to puddle where her feet stood. Cursing, she made her way to the bed, placing the wine glass on the vanity as she walked by, and pulled one of feet onto her knee to inspect it. Tiny shards of glass from the shattered mirror were sticking out of her feet, but the larger shards were the ones causing her feet to bleed. With a brush of her hand, she managed to flick most of the smaller shards off, but the larger ones remained lodged in her sole.

“ _Merde_ ,” she hissed, beginning to pull the larger ones out with her bare fingertips.

Reaper shook his head, heading towards the master bathroom. “I’m not going to ask why you’re shooting around and walking on glass,” he grumbled, quickly entering the bathroom and coming out with a towel. Widow had just finished pulling the shards out of one foot and was working on the other. Kneeling in front of her, he ripped the towel into shreds with his clawed gloves, and taking her foot in his hand, began wrapping one of the new rags around the larger cuts like gauze.

Widowmaker didn’t blink at the gesture. It was not uncommon for them to patch each other up; they were soldiers and accomplices. Still, she nodded at him and gave him a quiet “ _Merci_.” Reaper nodded back, otherwise not responding, and took her other foot in his hand after finishing the first. Widowmaker pulled her hair back out of her face, letting it fall behind her. She didn’t succeed in her mission to cut it, but there was nothing she was going to do about it now.

Reaper finished wrapping her feet, standing up and looking at her. “It’s long,” he commented.

“ _Quoi_?”

“Your hair. It’s long,” he mumbled, his voice almost sounding disapproving. Widow shot him an annoyed look.

“I can’t cut it.”

“Hm,” was all that Reaper said. Widow didn’t think much of it, but she knew that he must have known why. Reaper continued, “Put some clothes on and meet me up in the ship. I’ll brief you on the mission then.” Reaper’s form began to dematerialize in front of her, and before she could be blink, his Wraith form slithered out of the room.

Widowmaker realized she was still stuck in her sleeping shirt and still not wearing any pants. Standing upright on her rags, she walked over to the vanity, where she had started her morning. Not bothering to look at her hair, she began pulling her hair back into a ponytail. It was tight, pulling against her scalp, and her shorter hairs began to fall back against her forehead.

Securing her ponytail in place, she finally looked at her reflection. The visage of Widowmaker stared back at her, ponytail high on her head with her hair falling behind her back. Twisting one of the shorter hairs, she considered slicking them back against her scalp as she usually did. They contrasted with the tight form of her ponytail, loose and free while everything else was controlled and in place, and something told her to keep it this way. Grasping her wine glass for a final time, she threw her head back and drank it all in one gulp, eyes on her reflection the entire time.

“ _Quelle nuisance_ ,” Widowmaker muttered, giving her reflection one last glare before continuing to collect her things. Perhaps this time, she wasn’t just referring to her hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note, I don't speak French, so anything that isn't 100% natural is my bad.
> 
> If you like this, let me know. I have a few other ideas for character studies for Overwatch heroes.
> 
> Consider buying me a Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/strategicdilemma


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